


Sparkle Motion Speaking

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Derek, Fake Marriage, Love/Hate Relationship, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles. For the last time, we’re in witness protection, not part of some FBI undercover operation. There’s no code names involved. Capiche?" In which Derek and Stiles pretend to be married for the sake of everyone’s wolvelihood.</p><p>(“We – you and I – are going on an official date this Friday.”<br/>“We went on an official date last weekend.”<br/>“We went grocery shopping, Derek,” Stiles says. “We went grocery shopping and you managed to hold my hand for an incredibly unimpressive total of two seconds before freaking out and spending the rest of the trip bitchfacing at everyone. If I remember correctly you actually made the checkout girl cry.”<br/>“Did not,” Derek says, scowling.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparkle Motion Speaking

**Author's Note:**

> This is ~7k of ATTEMPTED crack, but as it’s Derek POV it ended up being more like ~7k of angry pining instead.

Turns out Agent McCall did not show up in Beacon Hills just to “fuck shit up” (Stiles’ words, of course). He’s actually with the Lycanthrope Protection Division of the FBI’s National Security Branch. Derek’s never heard of it, but then again, when does anybody ever tell him anything? If his mother knew about the Division, that information would have passed down to Laura first, and. Well.

In any case, Deaton confirms it’s legitimate, even producing a badge of his own (when does anybody _ever_ tell Derek _anything?_ ), and to be honest Derek is kind of relieved. The double blow of the alpha pack and Jennifer’s murder spree were tough on them all, but they dealt with it. Came out stronger, even, somehow, despite their losses and Peter disappearing and Cora hitting the road again. They came out united.

The Nemeton, though, that was a different story, and government assistance… It shouldn’t be, but it’s a relief to have this man in authoritative sunglasses and an obscenely well-tailored suit step up and say, “All right, you all are going to have to take a backseat on this one.” It’s comforting, falling back to beta position. Truly this time. Derek may have lost the eye color but Scott still looks at him the way Derek used to look at Laura, the way Cora looks – looked – at him. And he feels it, too, the weight of responsibility, the burden on his wolf brother’s heart. Each time a new evil descends upon the town Derek fears for his pack in that visceral full-body way he can’t help but associate with family.

McCall says they’ve waited long enough— possibly too long. The Nemeton has been drawing too many creatures and hunters, too much attention and suspicion their way. Before long the entire werewolf community in the U.S. will be in danger of discovery. There’s only one solution, really.

 

The witness protection arrangements don’t pose too much of a problem. Chris and Allison know how to stay under the radar, and she and Lydia were like sisters already anyway. Sheriff Stilinski and Melissa volunteer to start a new life as a married couple; they’ll take Isaac on as their third son.

Which leaves Derek.

Thing is, Derek’s too old to live with either family without causing suspicion (“Not to mention his harrowing lack of social skills,” Stiles quips, in response to which Derek petulantly drives his claws into the underside of the desktop hard enough to make McCall’s name plate fall over), so they’re pretty much stuck there.

“Unless…” McCall says, re-erecting his name plate. His cool hard eyes slide from the Sheriff to Melissa, then from Stiles to Derek, and—

“Oh, no,” Derek says. He shoots upright. “No fucking way.”

Stiles cracks up, the little asshole.

“No fucking way,” Derek repeats, face heating up. “Not unless you want him dead within a week.”

“Well, it’d be one headache less to deal with,” McCall says stoically. (The Sheriff goes, “Now listen, you—”; Melissa places a hand on his forearm.) “But,” he continues, unaffected, “you’ve got to consider the statistics, Derek. A young couple moving into a quiet suburban neighborhood is much less likely to attract attention than a single guy your age with a leather jacket and a resting face that…” He waves a hand in Derek’s direction. “Screams homicidal urges. No offense, of course.”

Derek’s fangs are itching against the roof of his mouth. “I can ditch the leather jacket,” he grunts through them.

Stiles is still laughing. The asshole.

“Sleep on it,” McCall says. He pops a mint into his mouth, shrugs. “I mean, hey, the only thing on the line here is the ongoing survival of your species, that’s all.”

 

* * *

 

“And— oh, hey, babe! May I present to you my lovely husband Derek,” Stiles drawls saccharinely, draping both his arms around Derek’s torso. “He’s a massage therapist, aren’t you, baby?”

Fucking—

Derek should’ve ripped his throat out when he had the chance.

“Apparently so,” he grits out. He bares his teeth at the woman Stiles is talking to. “Pleased to meet you.”

“You two look like a lovely couple,” she says, but her smile has turned hesitant and she makes a weird, abortive little hand gesture as she mumbles a goodbye in Stiles’ direction.

“Seriously?” Stiles says, unleashing his death grip on Derek to bump their shoulders together. “That’s not how smiling works, dumbass, you should—”

He starts prodding at the corners of Derek’s mouth with his thumbs. Derek jerks away.

“You carry the groceries inside,” he says, and flicks the car keys at Stiles’ chest. “ _Babe_.”

 

The next meet-the-neighbors moment, Stiles is clutching Derek’s hand and kissing his cheek, calling him ‘hubby’ and claiming he’s a yoga instructor.

“Stiles, what the _fuck_ ,” Derek hisses once the coast is clear. “Earlier you said I was a massage therapist.”

“I did?” Stiles says, looking vague. It’s not at all convincing. “Huh.”

“I thought the whole point of all this was _not_ to draw suspicion to ourselves. Great job, genius.”

“Oh, come on. You’re overreacting. On what plane of existence is you being a yoga instructor even remotely suspicious?” Stiles says, and—

—and slaps Derek’s _ass_. “I mean, look at you.”

Derek’s ears are ringing.

Stiles clears his throat and says, “Dude was looking back at us. All in the, uh, name of being convincing, right?” His face is turning slightly pink.

“Yeah,” Derek says. For some reason he can’t seem to come up with a good comeback. Anger, probably. He’s probably too angry. Fucking Stiles. He scratches at his cheek. “Convincing.”

 

They get to keep their first names, but everything else is different: their last name (Stiles: “This has got to be the most hilarious thing that’s ever happened to me in the history of _ever_ ”), their cars (“That soccer mom atrocity of yours was a disgrace to its kind anyway”), their furniture (“I’m surprised you even know the meaning of the word”), their stuff (“Wait, you owned stuff?”), their backstories. Derek has trimmed his beard down to a more respectable five o’clock shadow; Stiles keeps his hair and orders different clothes, to dress in accordance with his new age.

“Fuck you, Derek, I’m _twenty-two_ ,” he yells, indignant, when Derek wordlessly pulls the wine bottle from his hands during their first dinner at the— at _their_ new house. “Need me to show you? Where the fuck’s my wallet…”

Derek doesn’t even like wine much; he bought it mostly to annoy Stiles. Also to keep up appearances, of course. Hip young couples share bottles of red at dinnertime.

Stiles gets back at him by downing four cocktails in a row when they put in an appearance at the local bar later that night (McCall’s suggestion). His brand new ID does say he’s twenty-two, so Derek can’t do anything but watch and seethe in silence. Stiles catches Derek’s eye before twirling his tongue around the straw of his drink and sucking it down. Derek excuses himself, mumbling something about the noise, to go to the bathroom and splash water onto his face.

When he comes back, Stiles is animatedly telling the story of how he met Derek – the basketball captain; that much is true at least – back in high school to an enthralled audience of people whose names Derek has long forgotten.

“And now he’s a professional pole dancer, aren’t you, darling?” Stiles calls, batting his eyelashes. Everyone turns to look at Derek. He can hear at least two heart rates picking up.

Seething, Derek tells himself. He’s totally seething.

 

Stiles keeps stumbling into Derek’s side on their way home. “Married,” he murmurs, and giggles to himself. “We’re _married_.” He’s clinging to Derek’s arm. His hands are dry and warm and he smells— good, he smells good, beneath the mildly nauseating scent of hard liquor and sweaty nobodies he smells good. He’s eighteen, though, despite what his new ID says, eighteen and obnoxious and goddamn infuriating, and Derek grumbles, “Shut up and walk, Stiles.”

Stiles huffs in amusement.

Derek plans to dump him at the foot of the stairs and go to sleep, no, really, but Stiles just sinks down on the bottom step, blinking owlishly. He manages to look pathetic enough to make Derek sigh, mutter, “Fuck it,” and heave him to his feet. He helps the kid upstairs, orders him to get ready for bed, then goes back downstairs to get some Advil and a bottle of water from the fridge.

He returns to find Stiles burrowed in the king size bed, clothes strewn across the room. He looks—

“Pathetic,” Derek says loudly, flipping the pills down onto the mattress. “Sit up.” He makes sure Stiles’ head is at a comfortable angle before twisting the cap off the bottle and handing it over. “Drink.”

After downing most of the water and all the pills, and letting out a spectacular belch, Stiles sinks back into the sheets. He looks oddly amused still. “I can’t believe you used to scare me,” he tells Derek, voice not too slurred, and chuckles softly.

Derek lifts one eyebrow. “Used to?”

Stiles flaps his hands around. “Look at you,” he says, and chuckles some more.

Derek’s tempted to drop his fangs, growl a little, but it’s late and he’s tired. “Finish the water,” he tells Stiles.

“Sure thing, boss,” Stiles mumbles. Then, when Derek pushes up from the edge of the bed: “Hubby, where you going?”

Derek pauses in the doorway. Stiles can’t— “You cannot be serious.” The Sheriff would kill him. The ghost of his dead mother would kill him. He would kill himself, probably, tomorrow morning, waking to a room full of hangover breath and smooth expanses of sleep-damp teenage skin within reach.

Another half-stifled chuckle from the bed. “Hey,” Stiles says. “Hey, Derek. Sometimes I doubt your commit, your commitment to—”

Derek slams the door shut behind him, to make a point. Thank God he strong-armed the Feds into getting them a comfortable living room couch.

Him. He means getting _him_ a comfortable living room couch.

 

* * *

 

Because Derek is nothing if not committed to their cause, he takes up yoga.

He can’t start at the gym, of course, because Stiles keeps making overt and covert references to Derek’s _incredible_ balance, endurance and flexibility every chance he’s got. Soon enough the entire neighborhood will be under the impression that some sort of ultra enlightened yogi master just moved in. So much for staying under the radar.

Instead, he gets himself a mat and _Yoga for Dummies_ two towns over and spends a few days watching videos on YouTube to familiarize himself with the terms and poses. It’s not too hard, actually; many of the poses Derek recognizes from core strength training, and he’s got a pretty good basic fitness level to fall back on. It feels good to be working out again. The sweat trickling down the back of his neck, the bone-deep exhaustion in his muscles, the sense of satisfaction for hours afterward— he’d missed it.

He picks up running again too, while he’s at it, and it’s not until McCall texts him **Nice touch** that he realizes it’s a perfect reinforcement of their cover story. Is there anything more mundanely suburban than a man on his daily morning run? Even the neighbor he scared away on their first day starts smiling at him when he jogs past her and lifts a hand by way of greeting.

Derek considers being annoyed by the reminder that McCall has them under surveillance, but then again, it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the sensation of constantly having to look over his shoulder.

 

What’s worse is that the feds aren’t the only ones watching them.

 

“Morning Derek!” some guy – he lives in the house on the corner, with a wife and three or maybe even four kids; their last name is probably Jones, because life is self-deprecatingly funny that way – calls out. Derek’s already strode past him with a little wave when the phrase, “Trouble in paradise?” reaches him.

He turns to jog around Jones in a tight circle. “What was that?”

“Trouble in paradise?” the guy repeats, with a cheeky smile and a wink. “Look, I was walking past your place a couple of hours ago with the dog”—of course they own a dog. Probably a Golden Retriever—“and I happened to see you asleep on the couch. I gotta say, you two seem a little too young to be having, um, issues in—”

“Oh, no,” Derek interrupts him. He stops running in place and barks out a laugh, which he hopes sounds convincing and friendly, to buy himself half a second to come up with an explanation. “No, you see, Stiles, he’s— he’s recently got this job at a, uh, day care center, and he caught a terrible cold there, and, you know, I can’t really afford to get sick. So I decided to sleep on the couch. It’s not— we’re not. I mean, trust me, we are having no bedroom problems whatsoever.”

Somewhere on the continent, Cora is cringing with secondhand embarrassment and she doesn’t even know why.

Jones laughs heartily. “Ah, yeah, kids and their colds. Tell me about it. Well, anyway, that’s great to hear, bud,” he says, and claps a hand down on Derek’s shoulder. “I was starting to get a little worried about our favorite new couple. See you around!”

 

Derek’s just smoothed himself into a tree pose when Stiles comes bumbling into the study.

“We’ve got a problem,” Derek informs him, pushing his left foot higher up the inside of his thigh.

“No shit, dude, I’m bored out of my fucking _mind_ ,” Stiles says, plopping down into a chair. “I’ve pretty much read my way through all the books they gave us. That includes _Aquaponic Gardening: A Step-By-Step Guide to Raising Vegetables and Fish Together_ and all the cookbooks, by the way. And my community college courses aren’t starting for another two months. Also, McCall says I’m not allowed to hang out with Scott yet.” He pulls a face and jumps to his feet again. “Witness protection kind of sucks, you know.”

“It’s been a week,” Derek points out.

“Whatever. The fuck you doing, anyway?”

Derek presses his palms together and breathes out. “It’s called vrksasana. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles says, stepping closer. “Big bad Derek Hale, taking his yoga ruse all seriously.” He’s close enough now for Derek to make out the faint smattering of bristly hairs hiding under the curve of his lower lip, and Derek worries irrationally that Stiles will be able to smell him, that he didn’t put on enough deodorant after returning from his run, that he should’ve showered before going into his yoga routine.

“Shut up, Stiles,” he says. He feels off balance now; he lowers his leg, shakes out the cramp, switches to the other one. “Get out of my space or I’ll—”

“ _Fine_ , fine. No need to get all grumpy about it.” Stiles drags himself back to his chair. “So what’s the problem, Houston?”

“I talked to Jones earlier.”

“The one with the Marley dog?” Stiles pipes up.

“Whatever that means. He saw me lying on the couch this morning. Asked me if there was—”

“—trouble in paradise? Shit, man, I ran into Addie – that’s our next-door neighbor, FYI – at the grocery store this morning and she said _the exact same thing_.” Stiles huffs and shakes his head. “They’re, like, touchingly taken with us.”

“I’d say pathologically, but yes.”

“Oh, come on, cut ’em some slack. They’re just excited, that’s all. It’s obvious these people spent _ages_ waiting for a token gay couple to move in.”

“That’s incredibly—”

“Cute?”

“ _Problematic_ , Stiles.”

Stiles throws his head back, erupts into laughter. Derek loses his balance. “You need to lighten up, man,” Stiles says.

“And you need to stop talking like a teenager,” Derek snaps. He steps off his yoga mat and starts rolling it up. It’s no use with Stiles in the room, purposefully ruining his focus. Asshole. “Anyway, so I told Jones you caught a cold, ’cause you’re working with kids now—”

“I am?”

“You are.”

Stiles shrugs. “Okay. Could be worse, I guess, I mean, you could’ve made me a garbage collector or put me in an old people’s home or something.”

“I wouldn’t do that to the elderly. I assured him everything was fine between us, but we’re going to have to be more careful from now on. We need to keep our cover story airtight.”

“Well, then,” Stiles says, leaning back in his chair. “Derek, my old friend, this will be a night to remember.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a disaster.

Stiles takes fifty-four _minutes_ (Derek kept track) in the bathroom. When he’s done and Derek finally gets to use it he feels like he might choke on all the steam. Then Stiles wanders back in and makes fun of him for brushing his fangs, to which Derek responds with a dig at Stiles’ scrawny little chest and the scraggly trail of hair leading into his pajama pants.

He returns to the room to find Stiles climbing into bed wearing one of those dumb printed T-shirts with a movie reference Derek doesn’t understand, and Derek refuses to feel bad about it, he _refuses_ , because Stiles mocks him all the damn time. It’s what they do. But there’s some sort of itch around his midriff anyway and it makes it difficult to get comfortable—

“Stop fidgeting,” Stiles hisses.

“Shut up,” Derek says, but he doesn’t shift again. It’s fine for about five seconds, until the waistband of his sweatpants starts digging into his hipbones. He never wears sweatpants in bed, never wears _anything_ in bed, but… and then there’s Stiles, right next to him, freshly showered and smelling overwhelmingly of end-of-day weariness and—

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles says, pushing himself up onto one forearm. “What’s your problem?”

“You’re my problem,” Derek answers reflexively. He stops fidgeting to rub at his hipbone. “Fuck, did you forget to jerk off or something? Fifty-four minutes in the shower and you somehow manage to forget to jerk off?”

It’s mean, meaner than the comment about Stiles’ body, but when Stiles flushes red it’s not with hurt but with an extra spike of arousal. “Well, excuse me, but I’m not about to apologize for not jerking off in the shower with a werewolf in the next room,” he says, setting his jaw.

“I was downstairs.”

“Same difference.”

“And I’m not an amateur like your buddy Scott, Stiles, I can tune it out.” He could try, at least.

Stiles snorts. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? ‘Your buddy Scott’, like it isn’t obvious you worship the ground he—” He cuts off abruptly, sits up. “You know what, screw you and your emotional constipation and your _issues_. I’m gonna go jerk off.”

Derek’s chest feels like it’s on fire.

He doesn’t move once while Stiles hops out of bed and pads into the bathroom, slamming the door. He considers taking off the sweatpants but decides to suck it up. _Suck it up_ , he’s starting to sound like Stiles now. Stiles— if he concentrates he can hear the snap of a tube opening, the sound of skin moving across skin, slickly, wetly. A quiet gasp. But Derek doesn’t concentrate, he doesn’t concentrate at all, he lies on his stomach, motionless, his skin itching all over, and he pretends to be asleep when Stiles crawls under the covers again, smelling superficially of soap but, underneath, contented, sated, a little smug.

The smell keeps Derek up all night.

 

* * *

 

The feds arrange a job for Stiles at a daycare center just outside of town, and it’s better from there on. Stiles gets up early, leaves for work in their silver sedan and returns home at about five in the afternoon. Derek gets out of bed after he’s heard Stiles pull out of the driveway, embarks on his run and goes through his yoga routine afterward. Then he showers, eats brunch, reads the newspaper.

McCall keeps him busy enough to keep boredom at bay. It turns out Derek’s among the few thousand remaining born wolves, and he does the daily paperwork trying not to dwell on that fact. He proofreads government documents, advises on obscure matters, works on compiling some sort of— it’s not a book, exactly, but it’s. It contains information. Things he remembers from growing up. The intricacies of pack dynamics. Were-themed bedtime stories. He finds himself wishing, despite everything, that he could run some of them by Peter.

It’s a languorous existence, bordering on lazy, but Derek can’t bring himself to feel guilty about it. Trained men with binoculars and wolfsbane bullets in their guns are protecting his house 24/7; his only concern at the moment is making sure the neighbors believe him to be normal and married to Stiles. Thing could be worse. Have been worse. A lot worse.

He emails Cora every now and then. When she replies she writes, _You’ve earned this, Derek_.

It sounds like _you deserve this_ , and it makes a bubble of warmth bloom in the center of Derek’s chest.

 

Because Derek’s the one who spends more time at home, it makes sense that he’s the one to clean (Stiles, unsurprisingly, never cleans up after himself), to buy groceries and fix broken lights (he wouldn’t trust Stiles with anything like that anyway) and make dinner.

“Holy mother of Jesus,” Stiles says, kicking off his shoes and padding into the kitchen on socked feet. His hair looks fluffy, unkempt. “That smells amazing.”

Derek scoffs. “It’s just spaghetti,” he says. Stiles is trailing his new scent into the room, baby powder and scrap paper and sugar. Derek takes a deep breath. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Stiles says. He’s coming up behind Derek, popping a finger into the frying pan. Derek grabs for his wrist but misses. Stiles sucks the tomato sauce off his finger and hops up on the countertop. “Shit, man, that tastes good. I’m so fucking hungry. Works was good, Brandon kept trying to hit Brian whenever I turned my back on ’em but then Jack told them to stop, which melted my fucking _heart_ it was so cute and then Stacy asked me to make up this naptime story about—”

“I hope you don’t swear like that around the kids,” Derek interrupts him.

It’s Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes now. “Contrary to popular belief, I do have a filter, you know. And something called common sense. You wouldn’t be familiar with the concept.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Derek says, ignoring the last part.

Stiles sticks up his middle finger and smiles, smug.

“Dude,” Derek says. “Watch yourself.” He throws a furtive glance out of the window. The street in front of their house is mercifully void of inquisitorial neighbors walking their dog.

When he turns back, Stiles is still smiling at him, not smugly anymore but softly, almost fondly.

Derek says, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Stiles.”

“It’s—” Stiles puts up his hands in mock defense when Derek raises his ladle threateningly. “Dude! It’s just that you’re kind of starting to talk like me sometimes, that’s all.”

“Nonsense. I’m not.”

“You so are. I’m totally starting to rub off on you.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Derek tells Stiles, swatting at him with the ladle, but Stiles just ducks away and laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

* * *

 

A few evenings later, Derek’s clearing away the dishes when a phone goes off somewhere in the house. He locates the sound to Stiles’ nightstand, and he’s just about to yell out Stiles’ name when there’s the noise of thundering footsteps and Stiles going: “Sparkle Motion speaking.”

“Stiles,” Lydia’s voice comes through, tinny and harder to make out. “For the last time, we’re in witness protection, not part of some FBI undercover operation. There’s no code names involved. Capiche?”

“But it _sounds cool_ ,” Stiles whines.

Derek swallows away a smile and scrubs at a leftover stain on a plate with the dishtowel. He routinely tunes out the conversation, but he gets pulled back into it when Lydia finishes a sentence with “…Derek?”

“He’s…” Stiles falls silent for a few seconds. “He’s different,” he says. “I guess.”

“In what way?”

Another pause.

Derek realizes he’s holding his breath.

Stiles says, “A good way.”

Derek exhales. He turns the faucet on full force and, after a moment’s hesitation, reaches for the remote control to turn the TV on as well. He shouldn’t be listening in to Stiles’ conversations. Not even when they’re making him feel like—

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t listen in to Stiles’ conversations, period.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says. “You’re so not gonna like this.”

Derek looks up from his laptop. On the other end of the couch, Stiles is holding his cell phone at arm’s length, as though something might climb out of it and lunge for him (who knows; stranger things have happened). “I’m not gonna like what?”

“McCall,” Stiles says, squinting thoughtfully at the screen.

“I hate McCall.” Which is not exactly a secret. It also happens to be one of the very few points the pack is unanimous on.

“No, I mean, I was gonna say, McCall just texted me that he’s booked us a table at the diner this Friday.”

Derek frowns. “We’re going out for dinner with McCall? I thought—”

Stiles levels him with a look. “No, dumbass,” he says. “Us. Us as in you and me. We – you and I – are going on an official date this Friday.”

“We went on an official date last weekend.”

“We went grocery shopping, Derek,” Stiles says. “We went grocery shopping and you managed to hold my hand for an incredibly unimpressive total of _two seconds_ before freaking out and spending the rest of the trip bitchfacing at everyone. If I remember correctly you actually made the checkout girl cry.”

“Did not,” Derek says, scowling.

“Pretty sure you did. Anyway, McCall is of opinion that it’s been too long since we publicly showed our faces—”

“Because you keep getting drunk and telling everyone I’m a pole dancer!”

“—so Friday it is,” Stiles concludes calmly. He’s not even sorry. Unbelievable. “And by the way, you should wear that black shirt.”

“Oh, so McCall is telling me how to _dress_ now?”

“No,” Stiles says, after a second. “I mean, yes. I mean never mind.” His cheeks are flushing. “Just, put it in your phone calendar so you won’t forget.”

“Seriously,” Derek says. “Seriously, Stiles, I forgot to buy milk one time, okay? _One time._ You need to get over it.”

“Not in a million years,” Stiles says, folding his long legs under him. “So, Friday. Now put your laptop away and watch this movie with me.”

“I don’t want to watch your dumb superhero movie,” Derek says, but he does anyway.

 

* * *

 

Stiles says, “Can I just, I think maybe we should—”

His hand lands on Derek’s, rather abruptly, and Derek’s instinctive reaction is to jerk away.

“Derek!” Stiles hisses. “Let me hold your hand.”

“Jesus,” Derek mutters. “Do we ha—”

“I said _let me hold your fucking hand_.”

The elderly couple sitting at the table next to theirs is looking in their direction. Derek sighs and reaches for Stiles’ hand, which is still lying on the tabletop, palm pointing upward.

“Thank you,” Stiles says coolly. He threads their fingers together. “Now was that so hard?”

“Screw—”

“Gentlemen, your menus.”

“Thank you very much, Jason,” Stiles says, turning to the waiter with a bright smile. “Could I have a glass of water to go with the wine, please?”

“Thank you very much, Jason,” Derek mimics once the guy is out of earshot. “Tryhard.”

“Oh my _God_ , Derek,” Stiles snaps. “Could you at least _try_ to have a good time? I know it must be difficult for you, what with that huge stick up your ass and all, but—”

The man and woman next to them look up again, aghast, and Derek disengages their fingers to hide his smile behind his hand. “Well done,” he mutters under his breath. “Scarred ’em for life.”

Stiles pulls a face. His eyes are twinkling. “Whatever.”

“You don’t feel bad about ruining their evening? Wow,” Derek says quietly, sitting back. “How do you even sleep at night?”

“On silk sheets,” Stiles says, with a smirk, “rolling naked in money.”

It’s got to be a reference, ’cause they don’t have silk sheets and it sounds vaguely familiar besides. Maybe it’s from one of the many shows Stiles has been forcing down Derek’s throat over the past few weeks. Derek’s too busy not thinking about it to figure it out. He grabs his menu instead.

 

Dinner with Stiles is rarely awkward, as he just keeps talking; about work, about movies, about the food, about some hilarious Wikipedia page he stumbled across last night, about how he almost drove into a lamppost laughing this afternoon when he saw Jones getting pulled across the street by his Golden Retriever in adamant pursuit of a tabby cat. The stories themselves aren’t always interesting but Stiles tells them with such grand arm movements and full-body laughs that Derek can’t help but listen to every single word.

Although alcohol doesn’t affect him mentally, he can feel his body slip into a warm state of contentment. He feels laid-back and pliant, and somewhere over the course of the evening he loses some of his self-control. He finds himself looking at the blotches on Stiles’ cheeks, the softness of his hair. It looks good on him, the longer hair; better than the buzz cut he had when they met. Derek finds himself wanting to touch it, and then he realizes that he can, maybe even _should_. After all, that’s the reason they’re out here.

Stiles looks surprised but doesn’t pull away when Derek reaches out and brushes a hand down the side of his face, barely touching. It’s awkward, incredibly awkward, and Derek can feel his own face burning, but then Stiles smiles and touches his wrist, links their fingers again. It doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as before.

 

The next morning, Derek wakes up to light streaming into the room and a source of heat plastered to his chest. He blinks, lifts his head.

Stiles is in his arms.

They’re cuddling.

Full-on cuddling.

He tries to move an arm. “Nnnhm,” Stiles murmurs, shifting a little in Derek’s grip. His hands are clenched around one of Derek’s wrists. He doesn’t let go. “Just one more minute.”

Derek’s not awake enough to pretend to mind, so he doesn’t answer, allows himself the luxury of drifting back into sleep.

 

* * *

 

It happens on a Sunday morning.

Stiles is spectacularly slothful on weekends, claiming it’s because he has to make up for five consecutive days of “very hard work, Derek”. He sleeps in ‘till noon, follows Derek around the house and annoys him into cooking him a full breakfast (“It’s not breakfast if you eat it past lunchtime.” “Come _on_ , Derek!”), and then lazes around all day. He’s lying on the couch in sweatpants and a threadbare Captain America shirt with his laptop balanced on his chest, grinning quietly to himself, when suddenly he lets out a high-pitched squeak and flutters his hands around.

“Derek!” Stiles says. “Derek, Derek, Derek.”

Derek grunts from behind the newspaper.

“Derek, dude, you’ve _got_ to see this,” Stiles says.

Derek grunts again.

“Dude, no, seriously.” Stiles sits up and shakes the laptop in Derek’s direction. “It’s a compilation video of cats stealing dog beds. Derek!”

“You cannot be serious,” Derek says, but he does get up and moves to the couch. Stiles hits play. It’s a cute video, sure, but Derek spends more time watching Stiles watch the video than watching the video himself, and then Stiles hides his face in his hands and makes this happy little _noise_ at one of the dogs, and—

And it hits Derek square in the chest.

He breathes evenly through his nose.

“I’m going for a run,” he says when the video ends, pushing up from the couch.

“I thought you went this morning.”

“Only for half an hour. It’s not— I need another one.”

“But there’s also a compilation of puppies learning to howl!” Stiles yells after him, but Derek’s already left the room.

 

* * *

 

Okay.

So he might be falling in love with Stiles.

It’s not a disaster.

All he needs to do is call McCall and let him know—

What?

That he can’t go on. He can’t do this. He can’t do this to Stiles and he can’t do this to himself. They can leave, fabricate some sort of story about moving away as to not cause suspicion, and Stiles can go live with the Sheriff and Melissa and Isaac and Scott. He can enroll at a prestigious university. He can be eighteen again and go through college and live and flirt and fuck beautiful undamaged boys and girls his own age, maybe marry one of them eventually.

 _You’re the only piece that doesn’t fit, Derek_ echoes through his mind. He can’t even remember who said it to him. It doesn’t matter; he knows it to be true.

 

He runs for an hour straight, and when he arrives back at the house his heart is pounding but his head feels clear.

“Jesus Christ, Derek,” Stiles says, ripping open the front door. “You’re fucking soaked.”

Derek twists around. Rain is pouring down, puddles forming in the street, and—

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles says. Derek looks at him. Stiles is holding out a towel, his eyes large and dark. He looks. He looks worried.

“I can’t get sick,” Derek says, mechanically. His heart is still pounding.

Stiles laughs. “I know that, dumbass, I just don’t want you dripping all over our fucking floor.”

Maybe it’s the sound of his laugh, so familiar, or maybe it’s the _dumbass_ or the _our_ (our, our, our) or maybe it’s the fact that Derek sometimes feels like he’s never managed to make a good decision in his life but that doesn’t mean it should keep him from trying— whatever it is, he takes the towel from Stiles’ hands, lets it drop to the floor, touches his fingertips to Stiles’ neck, steps closer.

His hand slides into place like it belongs there, and Derek knows it does before their mouths even touch. He knows it belongs because Stiles exhales, softly, tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

His lips are warm and dry and Derek’s are wet and cold but they fit together anyway, and there’s probably a metaphor in there somewhere.

Stiles stumbles forward to meet him, push him back against the door. “Derek,” he breathes. He fists his hands into Derek’s rain-soaked shirt and presses their mouths together again. He’s shivering, shuddering up against Derek, eyes shut. _I think_ _I’m in love with you_ , Derek thinks, desperate, pushing his hand into Stiles’ hair, kissing him back with as much passion as he dares to pour into it. _Fuck, I’m in love with you._

“You idiot,” Stiles says, pulling at the collar of Derek’s shirt. “I can’t believe—” He’s shaking his head, smiling as he peels the wet fabric away from Derek’s skin. Derek lifts his arms obediently.

“Fucking _idiot_ ,” Stiles says again as he throws the shirt into a corner with a wet _flop_ and bends down to kiss Derek’s naked chest. “You’re such a—”

His mouth brushes across one of Derek’s nipples.

“Stiles,” Derek gasps, touching the back of Stiles’ head. His skin ripples with goose bumps.

“We’re _married_ , goddamnit,” Stiles says. He drops to his knees, fingers digging into Derek’s hipbone. “We could’ve been doing this for—” He makes a noise and cups Derek through his running shorts with both hands, squeezing, breathing hotly against the fabric. His heart is beating as fast as Derek’s. It’s a wonderful sound, strong and loud. Determined.

“Wait,” Derek says, sinking to the floor as well. “Let me kiss you again.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Stiles says. He snorts. “As in, literally. Not— no sarcasm this time.”

He smells warm and vibrant and content. Derek wants him closer. Wants more of him. He slips his hands under Stiles’ shirt. “Can I—”

Stiles leans back, and together they get rid of his shirt.

“You’re beautiful,” Derek says hurriedly. He runs his palms down Stiles’ chest, his pale slender beautiful chest. He presses a kiss to the base of Stiles’ throat. “You’re— I— Stiles—”

“I know,” Stiles says, taking Derek’s face between his hands. He kisses Derek, messily, wetly, kisses his cheek, his mouth, his chin. “I know, Derek, I know, I knew all along, I think. Somewhere— somehow—”

Derek dives forward and pins him to the floor, nosing at his neck. Stiles laughs that dumb amazing full-body laugh of his and grabs hold of Derek’s hips. Derek rolls their lower bodies together, and Stiles throws his head back and moans. It doesn’t take long until they’re both gasping, writhing, lost in the motion, the feeling. It’s weird how good it feels, how right.

“Wait,” Stiles whispers, fisting his hand into Derek’s hair. Sparks shoot down Derek’s spine all the way to the soles of his feet. He groans. “Not—” Stiles closes his eyes and moves up to meet Derek’s thrust. “Not, fuck, like this, I think you owe me like five thousand—”

“Don’t owe you anything,” Derek breathes against the wet spot he’s been sucking into Stiles’ neck.

Stiles shivers and laughs throatily. “Five thousand orgasms, and trust me, I’m gonna be—” He bites down on his bottom lip. “Counting.”

His eyes are shining brightly, his mouth wet and red and his throat blossoming with stubble burn.

“Hold on,” Derek says. He wraps his arms around Stiles. The bedroom’s too far away, but—

“I knew you requested this couch for a reason,” Stiles says when Derek deposits him onto it. He sits up and pulls Derek between his spread thighs. “Hey, so what time do these shorts come off?”

“Oh my _God_ , Stiles,” Derek says, but he hooks his thumbs under the waistband anyway. Stiles smirks and leans back, pushing his own sweatpants down at the same time as Derek steps out of his shorts. They’re both hard, hard and leaking, and Derek doesn’t know where to even start touching Stiles now that he’s got him here like this, right in front of him, naked and all his to touch and please and cherish. It’s almost too much. He’s not surprised when Stiles makes the first move, reaches up for Derek’s shoulders to pull him down onto the couch.

“You’re so hot,” he murmurs, tracing Derek’s clavicles with his long thin fingers. “You’re so hot, and you totally love me.”

Derek closes his eyes for a second. “I think you’re infuriating.”

“You love me,” Stiles repeats. He cups Derek’s neck and pulls him closer, on top of him. “You love me,” he whispers hotly into Derek’s ear. Derek shivers. He can feel the hard line of Stiles’ dick pulsing against his stomach.

“I think you’re barely tolerable,” he allows in a low voice, bracing himself on his forearm next to Stiles’ head. Stiles bares his teeth in a smile that turns into a loose gasp when Derek touches his cheek and then reaches down, between their bodies.

“Fuck,” Stiles says. He bucks up into Derek’s hand. “Derek.”

Derek bows his head. The weight of Stiles’ dick in his hand, the smell of their scents mixing—

He gives a few tugs at Stiles’ dick, watches his eyelashes flutter and the corner of his mouth twitch. Derek’s hand feels dry and he pauses. Before he can decide where to go from there, Stiles has already reached for his wrist and pulled it up. He licks a determined line across Derek’s palm, their eyes locked.

Derek whispers, “Fuck.”

Stiles grins, sucks Derek’s thumb into his mouth, his eyes slipping shut. He moans. His tongue traps Derek’s thumb against the roof of his mouth as he sucks and Derek’s body rocks downward of its own volition. “Stiles,” he says. It comes out strangled. He fumbles for their dicks again, giving himself a few rough jerks to take off the edge before stroking Stiles’. Stiles’ hand meets his, wraps around it, around them both.

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs, slack-mouthed. “C’mon— Derek—”

Their pace quickens, and again Derek is struck by how natural it feels, how _right_. They’re slotted together perfectly, moving faster and faster, their breath coming louder and louder. Stiles’ other hand clenches around Derek’s biceps, fingernails digging in, and it’s not until he’s whispered, “ _Derek_ ,” and started to come with his eyes squeezed shut and his body jerking wonderfully that Derek allows himself to come too, silently, forehead braced against the underside of Stiles’ jaw.

 

“Well,” Stiles says once he’s caught his breath, “I sure hope the feds were on their coffee break.”

“Fuck that,” Derek says. “I hope they enjoyed the show.”

Stiles throws his head back and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a very important link: [Cats stealing dog beds compilation](http://keriarentikai.tumblr.com/post/67376377031/cats-stealing-dog-beds-compilation)
> 
> Come find me [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Sparkle Motion Speaking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2253417) by [sir_yessir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir_yessir/pseuds/sir_yessir)




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